


i'll be your harvester of light

by melwritesthings



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Grief/Mourning, Here be angst, and the burn is slow, gilbert is the saddest of boys but it will get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-27 04:32:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melwritesthings/pseuds/melwritesthings
Summary: "Two weeks after John Blythe’s funeral, Anne stands on the edge of the Blythe homestead, gathering the courage to move forward. In her arms she carries Gilbert’s books and a basket of food from Marilla.Inside, she imagines, sits Gilbert with his heartache. He has made no indication of returning to school, but today Mr. Phillips resumed passing off extra reading for Anne to bring for him. Eager for the chance to check in on him—to apologize, to make things right—Anne obliged."Gilbert struggles in the wake of his father's death. Anne tries to lighten his burdens.





	1. the storm is coming soon, it rolls in from the sea

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my first fic for this fandom, having been a lifelong fan. this is written pretty specifically for the netflix series, but I hope it does justice to the heart of the characters. fic title and chapter titles come from "winter song" by sara bareilles and ingrid michaelson, a favorite song of mine. canon divergent after john blythe's funeral. gilbert goes through a rough time, but he will come back to himself! drop a line and let me know what you think.

The first thing Anne notices is a change in the air.

 

The walk from school took her through an icy paradise—a frozen fairyland in the trees—and she was momentarily able to forget her sorrowful destination.

 

The air was crisp, burning in her lungs deeply and luxuriously. It felt like she was breathing fire as she moved through the woods, surrounded by mystical stillness. In her mind Anne was a magical ice queen, gliding gracefully through frozen realm.

 

On the edge of the Blythe farm, however, the spell was broken. Now she is just Anne once more. The icy landscape, once something pure and transcendent, is suddenly sharp and bleak. No longer a crystal kingdom, the world seems shrouded in grief.

 

And so it is. Two weeks after John Blythe’s funeral, Anne stands on the edge of the Blythe homestead, gathering the courage to move forward. In her arms she carries Gilbert’s books and a basket of food from Marilla.

 

Inside, she imagines, sits Gilbert with his heartache. He has made no indication of returning to school, but today Mr. Phillips resumed passing off extra reading for Anne to bring for him. Eager for the chance to check in on him—to apologize, to make things right—Anne obliged.

 

Her hand grips the iron gate surrounding the family plot. “Hello again, Mr. Blythe,” she whispers, icy puffs of breath carrying her words forth, “I hope you do not worry too much about Gilbert. We will look after him.”

 

After offering a tearful smile to the headstone, Anne takes a deep breath and moves towards the house.

 

The second thing she notices is the general disarray of the farm. Gilbert had clearly—and understandably—let his chores slip as his father grew worse and passed. There are unfinished repairs on the barn and property fence, weeds that need pulling, and the smell of frozen, rotten apples from an unattempted harvest drifts from the orchard.

 

Anne shakes her head at the sorry state of the farm and mentally files away a reminder to find out how she can help. _One thing at a time,_ she thinks, before raising a shaking hand to knock on the door.

 

Her sharp raps on the door go unanswered. Anne is about to turn away when she notices a specter standing in the window. Two dark eyes look out from a pallid face, so haunted they almost seem unseeing. They meet hers and Anne gasps; she feels as through she is meeting with a ghostly figure from a gothic novel.

 

But this is no demonic creature: it is Gilbert, her classmate and sometimes friend. Anne internally admonishes herself and quashes her fear. He needs support and care, not a frightened little girl.

 

“Gilbert,” she calls softly, “I brought some things for you.” Anne swallows her instinct to say more—to tell him about the books in her arms or the groceries from Marilla. She doesn’t want to overwhelm him before he even lets her in.

 

_Will he let me in?_

 

He blinks slowly at her from behind the glass. He regards her carefully—almost suspiciously—as she gestures to her basket. Gilbert steps away from the window and for a brief, horrifying moment Anne thinks he is leaving her outside.

 

The front door slowly creaks open, however, and Anne breathes a deep sigh of relief. Her brow creases in confusion when Gilbert does not appear on the other side, but she slowly pushes her way into the house.

 

The third thing Anne notices is the cold. There is no fire in the hearth, no heat from the stove. She worries her lip between her teeth as she steps further into the kitchen.

 

Gilbert sits at the table, staring at his hands. Anne’s heart clenches at the sight of him. Orphaned and alone, like she once was. At this thought, she is propelled into action.

 

“I’ve got some books from Mr. Phillips,” she chirps, “and lots of food. We thought you’d have had enough of casseroles by now, but Marilla baked some scones, and there’s also some eggs and sweet potatoes here. Are you hungry?”

 

He gives an imperceptible shake of the head. Anne thinks she would have missed it completely had his curls not shifted with the motion.

 

“Right then,” she says bracingly, “it is freezing in here. How about a fire? Do you have any wood?”

 

Another no.

 

“Gilbert, that simply won’t do. How am I expected to beat you in school if you’ve turned into an icicle?” Anne stands with her hands on her hips in what she hopes is an obvious joke.

 

Gilbert raises his head slowly to look at her. Taking him in—the exhaustion, the sorrow that radiates from him—Anne deflates. She abandons her cheerful pretense and throws herself into the chair next to him.

 

Grasping his forearm, Anne takes a rattling breath before speaking: “Gilbert, I am so dreadfully sorry for the way I spoke to you at your father’s funeral. I had no right. I thought… well, I don’t know what I thought. But I promise not to be so self-involved in the future. Can you forgive me?”

 

She searches his eyes imploringly, hoping for some glimmer of acceptance. Or even anger. Anything but the lifelessness that she currently saw. But he just blinks back her, and Anne is not entirely sure that he heard her.

 

She gives Gilbert a sad smile and releases his arm. As she moves to stand, a hand covers her own. He doesn’t squeeze, nor does he interlock their fingers; his palm ghosts over the back of her hand and disappears like it was never there at all.

 

Anne is satisfied with this. Renewing her toothy smile, she begins unloading her basket of food. “I really think you’re going to like these scones. Marilla added some fresh berries this time—I almost didn’t want to give them up!”

 

Gilbert maintains his silence, but Anne is now perfectly happy to fill the room with prattle. She puts on the kettle and tells him about the various goings-on in Avonlea, the lessons he’s missed, the games she’s invented with Diana and Ruby.

 

After a few moments she places a steaming mug of tea in front of him, along with a plate of scones. “Eat something,” she chides gently, before grabbing a blanket from the sitting room and draping it about his shoulders. “And I’ll be right back.”

 

\--

 

Gilbert feels the loss of Anne’s incessant chatter as soon as the door shuts behind her. He had not intended to let her in, but the sight of her as she gazed at him through the window moved his feet before he could stop himself.

 

Her presence softened the ache in his chest, if only slightly. The wild roar of thoughts careening through his mind slowed—he could focus; he could breathe.

 

He sips the tea and notices that she’d sweetened it the way he likes. He breaks of a piece of scone and dunks it into the tea before popping it in his mouth. His appetite has not quite returned, but he savors the taste nonetheless.

 

Anne Shirley is the first person since the wake to cross over the threshold of his now-hollow home. Gilbert couldn’t handle the small talk, the sympathy, the kind eyes. Neighbors left food and cards outside the front door; had Gilbert’s father not taught him manners, he might have left them all outside.

 

But he could not keep himself from letting Anne inside. He’d been cross with her after his father’s service, he could not deny it. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to face the enormity of his father’s death. No, that wasn’t it. Gilbert knew how drastically his life was about to change weeks before his actual passing.

 

No, it was more that he wasn’t ready to share his grief. He felt fiercely protective of it, of his memories. Moreover, he wasn’t ready to see that pain in her. He could not bear to see his anguish mirrored in her eyes.

 

A loud thud interrupts Gilbert from his thoughts. Then another. _Anne._ Had she fallen? Slipped on some ice? What was she even doing out there? Fear floods his veins. Discarding the blanket and his tea, Gilbert runs for the door. Throwing it open, the shout of her name dies in his throat.

 

For there is Anne Shirley Cuthbert hoisting an axe over her head. Next to her lay two logs, somewhat-cracked rather than split. Gilbert splutters in shock. _What is she thinking?_ She moves to swing the axe downward and he is startled again into motion.

 

“Anne!” he shouts desperately as he leaps from the front porch, practically hoping to halt the axe’s movement with his mind. She brings the axe down hard and Gilbert feels his heart stop. The axe ricochets off the log and lands in the snow. Anne brings her hands to her face and doubles over in pain.

 

Gilbert can’t seem to move fast enough. He reaches her as the axes hits the ground and grabs her shoulders. “Anne,” he breathes, “Anne are you alright?” She shudders in his hands and with her face covered, he cannot tell whether she is laughing or crying.

 

Both, it would seem. Anne brings her hands to grasp Gilbert’s forearms for balance. Tears streak across her cheeks, though her mouth is twisted in a wide, soundless laugh. He lets out a shaky breath of relief before he notices the blood.

 

A thick stream of it, from a wound just below her eye. “Oh, Anne,” he groans, “you nearly took your eye out!” Gilbert throws an arm around her shoulders and hurries her inside. Despite the feel of Anne beneath him, the violent storm in his mind returns.

 

Why did she have to do this? Put herself in such danger? Why do this—for him? Why now, when he is struggling to put his life back together? A quiet rage boils in his blood.

 

Anne is tickled still as she sits at the kitchen table. “Oh, I am sorry Gilbert,” she manages between breathy laughs, “it’s just that I am not sure why I thought I could do that! I saw myself as some sort of reverse Prince Arthur!”

 

She is wiping tears of mirth when he joins her at the table. As he begins tending to her wound, he mutters, “I’m not sure why you thought that either.”

Anne sobers immediately. “I am sorry,” she says seriously, “it’s just so cold in here, I thought I’d try to cut some firewood.”

 

Gilbert gestures to the bloody cloth in his hand and stonily replies, “Anne, you are lucky that this won’t need sutures. You are luckier still that that woodchip didn’t permanently damage your eye.”

 

“I know that,” she says, an embarrassed blush creeping across her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to cause you trouble. I just wanted to help.”

 

Satisfied that her wound is thoroughly cleaned, Gilbert abruptly stands from his chair. “I don’t need your help, Anne. You should go.”

 

Gaping at him in shock, Anne stands and moves towards him. “You aren’t serious, Gilbert. You have to let me help you.”

 

“And what help have you been today, Anne? Nearly blinding yourself?”

 

It’s harsh, he knows. But he can’t have her here. Not if she’s going to put herself at risk. He was a fool to let her in to begin with. No, he needs to handle this alone. He needs to be alone with his hurt—not give it to her.

 

Gilbert expects Anne to yell, to protest. He expects her to hurl perfectly-crafted insults his way, ones that will have him thumbing through a dictionary later. What he does not expect, however, is for her to go.

 

Anne carefully pads over to entryway and gathers her basket. She swallows thickly and with a sad smile she says, “I am sorry, Gilbert. Good night.” The door shuts softly behind her. The house is suddenly suffocating.

 

Gilbert trudges up to bed, though he knows he won’t sleep. He will lay awake all night with thoughts of red hair and red blood.

 

\--

 

He must have dozed off at some point, as he wakes in the early morning with a start. A pale winter light drifts through his window. Shivering, Gilbert forces himself out of bed for more layers. Pulling on an extra pair of wool socks, he is startled by a familiar thud from outside.

 

_You have to be kidding me._

 

He starts for his bedroom window, fully prepared to throw it open and shout at Anne down below. The scene before him, however, is not what he expected.

 

Matthew Cuthbert is splitting wood. There are several split logs scattered about already, and Gilbert notices a flash of red moving towards them. Anne picks up a piece of wood with gloved hands and turns to place it in a pile on the front porch.

 

As if sensing his gaze, she looks up to his window. They regard each other quietly for a moment. Anne seems to realize that Gilbert will not come down: she offers him a soft, understanding smile.

 

It’s too understanding, too kind; he nods curtly and turns away from the window before the ache in his throat can escape as a cry. Gilbert closes the curtains and returns to his bed.

 

Outside, the crack of splitting wood continues.


	2. they say that things just cannot grow beneath the winter snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay kids, buckle up, because this one is LONG. I have been so hit-over-the-head inspired by this little fic, and I am writing it faster than I've ever written anything. I am floored by the support thus far. thank you :) I've added a link to the playlist I made for writing this story to the end notes if anyone is interested!

Anne watches a soft sunrise as it invades the frozen world outside her bedroom window. Pink light catches the icicles hanging from the barn and the snow that drapes the earth. The world is suspended between morning and night; Anne, having been up for hours, feels suspended too.

 

She rests a palm on her icy window pane and marvels at the way it feels against her skin—almost painfully cold, yet somehow comforting. In an instant, her imagination sets to work. Green Gables disappears: the sparkling world outside is a blank canvas for her mind’s fancies.

 

She is an explorer of uncharted lands, surveying an ancient realm of diamond and ruby-encrusted earth. She is a fairy princess, a magical ice nymph, she is the snow goddess Khione. She is a sorcerer, a fearless knight charging forth through frozen tundra, she is ice and power.

 

_No_ , she thinks, and the world rights itself. She is Anne. Today she must only be Anne.

 

Tethering herself to reality once more, she sets about dressing for the day. It is Monday, and she has much to do before school.

 

Anne had left Gilbert’s house the other night determined to not upset him further. She quietly and resolutely walked home, forcing deep and icy breaths to maintain her composure. _Do not cry,_ she told herself, _do not feel sorry for yourself right now._

She managed to hold herself together until she slipped through the front door at Green Gables. Seeing Matthew and Marilla—her family—alive and warm and well, sitting by the hearth was too much to bear. Anne dissolved into tears before the door had even closed behind her.

 

Matthew and Marilla leapt into action at the sight of her, pale and bleeding in the doorway. Matthew gathered her in his arms, murmuring whispered comforts into her hair. Marilla tended to the cut on her face before gently but firmly asking Anne what was wrong.

 

“Oh, I am wretched,” Anne wailed, “I am thoughtless and wicked, and you should send me off tonight!”

 

“Heavens, child! Why must you speak like that? Calm down, and tell us what has happened!” Marilla’s face was stern, though her eyes darted about in concern.

 

“We’ll be sending you nowhere,” Matthew added quietly, tightening his grip.

 

Anne gulped for air before speaking once more. “It seems that however good my intentions, no matter what I do, I will never be of any use or comfort to Gilbert—or to anyone.”

 

“What on earth do you mean? Where have you been?”

 

Anne looked up at Marilla through her tears, flushed with shame. “I brought Gilbert his books today. And when I saw that he’s had no fire I thought I’d cut him some wood, and I—I— oh, I just made such a mess of things!”

 

Anne’s sobs overtook her once more; Marilla and Matthew exchanged bewildered glances over her head.

 

“Come now, Anne,” Matthew soothed, “it can’t be as bad as all that.”

 

“But it can, Matthew!” she cried, “I am a foolish girl! I hurt myself and Gilbert sent me away. He was so angry with me. Oh, Marilla, he is suffering so and I don’t know how to help!”

 

“Take a breath, Anne, and calm yourself,” Marilla chided softly. “It is not for you to solve everything. Gilbert Blythe was right to send you home. You have no business with an _axe_.”

 

Anne hiccupped and stared up at her with wide eyes. “I just… I just wanted to do something for him. I’ve been so unfeeling towards him. He needs help, Marilla.”

 

“And you were very kind to bring him his books and keep him company. But you mustn’t take on too much. Gilbert will ask for help when he is good and ready, and the appropriate people will be there for him.”

 

_She doesn’t understand,_ Anne thought. Too tired and too upset to argue, she nodded and wished them both good night.

 

“Do not put the weight of the world on your shoulders, child,” Marilla said as Anne moved to the stairs, “There’s no need to make a martyr of yourself. Best you can do now is to pray for him.”

 

Upstairs in her room, Anne found herself unable to relax. Silver moonlight flittered across the walls, but her mind was too burdened to imagine them as anything else.

 

She loved Marilla deeply and with all her heart, but Anne knows that she was wrong. Gilbert Blythe would not ask for help. Had Anne thought that he was ready to take care of himself, she would not have felt such distress. But she remembered how it felt to be in the depths of despair: isolated, hopeless, and desperately wearied.  

 

A light knock on the door surprised her out of her troubled reverie.

 

Matthew poked his head in and eyed her cautiously. “I thought you’d still be up,” he said.

 

“Oh yes,” Anne sighed, wringing her hands, “I fear that I will be unable to rest for some time. I am very truly despondent, Matthew.”

 

“Well, we can’t have that,” he replied as he stepped into the room. He knelt by her bed and took her hands. His skin was rough; it made Anne think of the old leather-bound books on the shelf downstairs. It was comforting.

 

“Tell me what troubles you,” he said, rubbing comforting circles on the back of her hand.

 

“Marilla says that Gilbert was right to send me away, and maybe he was, but he won’t ask anyone for help. And he’ll freeze to death in that sad house before he summons the energy to cut any wood for himself.”

 

Anne’s eyes burned with fresh tears as she spoke, thinking of that cold, empty house. “And when I offered my help,” she continued with a breaking voice, “he refused it. He said he didn’t need help. But he’s going to waste away in there, I just know it! It’s too tragical for words!”

 

Matthew pondered this for a moment.

 

“He won’t accept the help you offer, you say?” At the slow, sorrowful shake of Anne’s head, he continued, “Well then, what about the help you _don’t_ offer—or rather, that _we_ won’t offer?”

 

Anne blinked at him in confusion. Matthew smiled fondly and rustled her hair as he stood.

 

“Meet me outside tomorrow before breakfast. We’ll sort something out.”

 

And so dear Matthew rode out with Anne early the next morning to split some wood at the Blythe farm. She had rather hoped to have it done before Gilbert woke up, but it seemed that fate had other plans.

 

She felt his eyes on her before she saw him standing in the window above. Anne tried to convey everything with her eyes—her remorse, her sorrow, her support—but Gilbert remained unmoved. He disappeared from view and Anne carried on with her work.

 

As they rode back to Green Gables, Matthew nudged her gently with his elbow. “You’ve got a kind heart there, Anne. It’s good of you to care for Gilbert Blythe so.”

 

“It’s not like that,” Anne said quickly, “I just feel like I need to make up for how I was when I arrived here. I feel sorry for him. That’s all.”

 

Matthew merely quirked an eyebrow and said, “Well you’ve done a good thing today. I bet you he’s got enough firewood to last him some time. I hope your mind will be at ease now.”

 

Anne smiled lightly but offered no response, her mind already working out what needed to be done next.

 

This morning, having had the weekend to think it over, Anne bundles up warmly and tiptoes downstairs. She hurries through her morning chores; by the time she returns with the eggs, Marilla is standing on the porch waiting for her.

 

“What on earth are you doing up so early?” Marilla stands with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised suspiciously.

 

“Oh! With all the whirlwind emotions of the weekend, I must have forgotten to mention! Mr. Phillips has at last agreed to give me extra tutelage, and I am to meet with him in the mornings before school. You don’t mind, do you?”

 

Anne smiles with what she hopes is the full force of sweetness. Marilla eyes her apprehensively for a moment.

 

“Alright,” she sighs, “but if I hear just one word of trouble from you, I’ll not be pleased. Understand?”

 

“Of course, Marilla! Thank you!” Anne cries, rushing into the house to grab her school things and a piece of toast for breakfast.

 

Anne darts down the lane towards the schoolhouse. Once sure that Marilla has drifted back inside, she ducks into the woods and makes her way to Gilbert’s house.

 

She hesitates briefly when she arrives. _What if he sees me here again? How angry will he be then?_ Anne shakes her head at these thoughts. _He’s already angry, Anne Shirley Cuthbert, so you may as well get on with it._

This morning’s job, she decides, will be some gardening. _Start with the small things._ The winter garden near the rear of the house is in desperate need of attention. Moving as silently as she is able, Anne sets to work.

 

She forces herself to stay focused. Though the garden sits out of view of Gilbert’s window, she cannot risk daydreaming. Her tendency to get carried away would surely get her caught. _A shame_ , Anne muses lightly, _for what a moment this would be to imagine oneself as Cinderella._

 

Once the plot has been cleared of weeds and debris, Anne begins pulling up the plants that have frozen. She notes that some of the root vegetables are salvageable. _Carrots. Of course._ Allowing herself a small smile, she puts them aside in her basket.

 

The sun rises higher in the sky, and Anne soon finds herself out of time. Shivering, she stretches her stiff joints and stops by the chicken coop to grab some fresh eggs. She then creeps to the front of the house, placing the basket of food by the door. _With any hope,_ she thinks, _he’ll at least feed himself something healthy._ She notices with extreme pleasure that Gilbert has taken some of the firewood inside.

 

Stifling a yawn, Anne makes her way to school.

 

* * *

 

Gilbert wakes to the morning sun beating against his skin. Just after nine, the clock tells him. With no school to attend and no one to take care of, his days have lost their structure. He sleeps when he is able and wakes only when he must.

 

He shoves his feet into his boots and throws a coat over his shoulders. Beyond keeping the animals alive, Gilbert has had little care for his usual chores. He steps outside to feed and water them—and he may as well milk the cow—and nearly trips over something immediately in front of the door.

 

Frowning slightly, Gilbert blinks at the basket by his feet. _Carrots._ A jolt of pain flashes through his chest at the thought. He swallows it down and numbly goes about his chores. He tosses feed to the chickens, dimly noting that there aren’t any eggs to gather.

 

Once back to the house, he brings the basket inside. He stares at its contents for a moment—a bundle of carrots and a handful of eggs—and thinks vaguely that he should tend to his own garden outside. The idea of working his father’s land is unthinkable, revolting, and so he shakes the idea away. No one needs their crops anyway.

 

He unloads the basket and places it back outside the door. Surely some well-intentioned housewife of Avonlea would return for it later. Gilbert only hopes they don’t attempt to visit with him.

 

A small stack of firewood sits in the corner of the kitchen. He’d brought it inside over the weekend, but could not bring himself to light a fire. As if on cue, a violent shiver runs through him. Something like shame washes over him. _Matthew Cuthbert did not split all that wood so you could turn blue_ , he scolds himself, _and Anne—_ he halts the thought of her before it overtakes him.

 

Instead Gilbert tosses a couple of logs in the hearth and lights a match. He sits in his father’s armchair as heat pervades the little parlor; the fire sets the room aglow and for a moment it feels like home.

 

He watches the flames lick against the wood and falls asleep once more to thoughts of fiery red hair.

 

* * *

 

 

Anne walks through the woods with Diana feeling increasingly uncomfortable and anxious. She likes secrets when they are scrumptiously and divinely magical. But Anne does not like being dishonest. She does not like to keep secrets: from Matthew and Marilla, of course, but especially from her bosom friend.

 

She’d been distracted all day, silently fretting over her morning activities. Diana fussed throughout the morning— “Oh, Anne you look so tired!” she’d cried at the sight of her—concerned that her friend might be growing ill.

 

“Never fear, my dearest darling Diana, I am perfectly well,” Anne promised with a bright smile. But she struggled to pay attention to their lessons, and she sat in silence while her friends chattered away at lunch. Now, on their walk home at the end of the day, she cannot seem to keep her focus on anything.

 

She thinks about Gilbert; if he’s seen the basket or noticed her work. Or is he too blinded by grief to step outside the door? To venture to the garden? Has he eaten the eggs, eaten anything at all—or even lit a fire? Her mind positively races with questions.

 

Diana notices and grabs her friend by the arm. “Really now, Anne,” she says bracingly, “what on earth is the matter with you today?”

 

Anne opens her mouth to say that she is fine, but is instantly silenced by a warning look from Diana. She holds her hands up in defeat. “I suppose I am a little down, dear heart, but all will be well soon enough,” she says softly.

 

“I wish you would tell me about your troubles, Anne,” Diana replies with great feeling. They part ways with sad smiles and promises of a better tomorrow.

 

As she walks, Anne thinks she may die from the disgrace. But she cannot explain the fierce instinct to guard her secret duty. She could never put it into proper words, this deep and intrinsic need to help Gilbert through his mourning. She won’t let him fall behind, to come out of the fog of grief to a farm beyond hope of repair.

 

Anne stops in her tracks when she realizes where her feet have brought her. The Blythe home sits before her, weighted by stillness. It is not so desolate a scene as it was this morning, however: the chimney puffs with smoke.

 

_It is a sign,_ Anne thinks with delight, _everything is going to be alright._

She scurries home before she risks tempting fate. There is homework to be done and chores to finish; a dinner to be shared with her family and a good night’s rest before tomorrow’s work may begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies again for the length-- I can't seem to stop writing this one. next chapter will be along shortly. 
> 
> find the spotify playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/user/q7klnu0tmwajy24fkvzm34d7d/playlist/7kvsJEVLcat4lQY7GLJ6H3
> 
> and find me on tumblr at aanneshirley!

**Author's Note:**

> what are we thinkin? I have more planned, but will see how you feel! there is angst before the good stuff comes, be warned! find me on tumblr at aanneshirley if you wanna chat!


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